Don Juan Returns
by OnyxRose13
Summary: "For her sake, the Phantom of the Opera must come back". Rating may be subject to increase.
1. Prologue

**_I am very new to this fandom, please review, be gentle. I tried to create something different from the typical approach I was seeing to Erik x Christine stories. I hope you enjoy. _**

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_**Prologue:**_

"How did you find me?", the tall figure in the corner of the room demanded.

It certainly hadn't been easy, she could attest to that much, if she hadn't known him so well she might never have done it at all. But his methods were just unique enough that she had been able to follow a bread crumb trail of tiny clues straight to him in only half a year's time. The littlest slips, a piece of paper with music scribbled on it and then left behind in the waste bin when he moved on, he had left enough notes around the opera house that she could have picked his handwriting right out of any sample shown to her.

And eventually those unintentional hints had lead her to the top rooms of this forsaken tower on the banks of the Tiber, an unlikely hideout for him, but then again he was clever enough to realize that the first place anyone would think to look for him was underground.

Despite the change in altitude the interior of his new home wasn't a vast improvement over the first and the decor was as macabre as ever. All of the furniture was dark and ornate, black, grey, the occasional hint of a deep, bloody shaded crimson. Night had fallen and now the only light came from a few sparse candles, burning low, rendering more of the room out of her view than in. She could discern just enough to know his back was to her, his long arms folded around chest in such a manner that made him look as though he were bracing for something painful, she thought she caught the hint of slender fingers thrumming impatiently against a thin upper arm.

"No one betrayed you, if that's what you're asking", she replied rather more harshly than she had intended. It wore on a person, the intensity of his distrust, and the long journey had left her weary, she was struggling to be patient with him tonight.

He responded in kind, reacting to her severity with an embitterment that shocked in both it's depth and the swiftness with which it arrived, "I should hope not", his voice, that uncommonly beguiling tenor, came frigid and lifeless, almost unrecognizable, "And I suppose it does not particularly matter how you arrived, Madame Giry, my question to you", he turned to face her, so abruptly she almost jumped, and she could see his mismatched eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Is why you have come?".

She sighed and ran her fingers through her graying hair, she really couldn't have expected him to make this any easier on her. Perhaps one with a lifetime of practicing the fine art of interaction would have offered pleasantries, would have perceived her unease and attempted to alleviate it. But never had he experienced such a thing and he truly seemed to have voided himself of the reflex that guided people to ease the suffering of others. Which begged the question as to why she had sought him out at all and perhaps it was a poor plan, but with no alternative in sight he could very well be the final hope. And regardless, this was a rather special case for him.

"To save a life", she told him pointedly.

She could not see more than the edges of his face and yet she sensed rather than perceived a raised brow.

"Kind of you", he answered dryly, "But if suicide were an option we wouldn't be having this conversation", he waved a gloved hand in dismissal, a forced laugh accompanying the gesture.

"Not you this time", she shook her head, and stared harder, willing him to understand.

"Then who-", he stopped cold, all of her pointed stares, why she had sought him out specifically, seemed to click in to place, she could practically hear his brilliant mind piecing it together.

"No", he spat.

He turned his back on her once more.

"Erik! You must know-", she began, ignoring his flinch at the use of his name.

"Know what madame?", he cried, "And to what end? Return? Risk my life for one who cares nothing for me?", he shook his head, "No. I put that behind me. I'm done".

But he hadn't let it go, and that was all too obvious. He had always been lean, but she could tell he had lost a significant amount of weight, his clothing fluttered with the barest gust of air as they hung loose on his frame. There were stacks upon stacks of paper strewn across every available surface, but no pile had received the marked care he gave to an actual score. Some of the keys of the piano in the corner were chipped where they had obviously been struck far too hard, far too many times. Nearly all of the other furniture was gathering dust and upon one of the sooty tables sat the scorched carcass of a rose that he had clearly set on fire.

He wasn't done, he didn't know how to give up.

"Cares nothing for you, you say?", she pressed. Genius or not he didn't understand people the way she did. She knew what a young girl besotted looked like and perhaps she hadn't chosen him in the end, but loving someone and thinking it viable to spend your life with them were two different things. Certainly the events of the most recent weeks that Meg had disclosed to her may speak otherwise.

"She left", he said and the answer was quiet, but bore the finality of a death.

"She returned".

"She what?", he demanded, his voice catching over the words as it so rarely did. Shock, she thought.

"Just after you left actually. She returned to perform, and she certainly got her wish, more than she bargained for. The old managers left, said they couldn't take anymore, and the new one took advantage of her devotion to her art", she frowned, saddened by the way such a young and great talent had been manipulated.

"Meaning?".

"She's being worked to death. People come from all over to hear her sing, and it seems they will pay anything, You did one thing right, she's a phenom, most of us have never seen anything like it. But the more they pay the more the managers push for her to do. You know how she is, she can't say no to anyone".

Throughout the course of her explanation his angrily tensed shoulder had gradually dropped in what she assumed was either guilt or concern. A twinge of remorse flickered through her, as much as she hated to pile any more damage upon the mass of emotional scarring he already bore she had come to help Christine, and it was clear to her he would not intervene on her behalf without some extremely concentrated convincing.

Now that his temper had cooled a little he could truly hear her.

"Please don't take this for theatrics, or exaggeration, or whatever else you might", she pleaded, "They are killing her. She exhausted, sick again every time we turn around, she barely eats, barely sleeps. And Meg told me that when she does-" Madame Giry forcibly cut herself off. Uncertain whether revealing such a personal thing was a betrayal of her young friend.

At her abrupt silence his lip curled and she knew that it did not bode well. He was always so quick to make assumptions, regardless of whether he had all the information pertinent or not. She knew why, it was because he had lived so long in such a manner that quick judgements were essential for survival. Perhaps such snap decisions did not serve him well in Parisian society but they would have been a life line wandering through some god forsaken desert with bandits, and refugees, and who could fathom what else.

Even given that, right then, she just wanted to shake him by the shoulders and exclaim that the entirety of the world was not bent upon his demise. Where she cruel she would have told him that his assumption that Christine could not care for him once she saw beneath the mask was what had truly pushed her away. Of course the poor girl had been surprised, anyone would have been, but truthfully, it needn't have been the catastrophic event he had turned it into. She occasionally wondered how events might have played out if he had kept his emotions in check, calmly explained instead of letting fear consume him.

But then if he had done so he might not be Erik at all. Whether it aided him or not that terror of others was so deeply ingrained she doubted it could ever be eased or undone or taken away. And now he flashed wicked teeth as his mouth twisted into a snarl, he had turned around once more to advance on her.

"Go on?", he prodded in a falsely sweet whisper, his lovely voice changing again, "Or is there a hole in your cleverly fabricated story? Some flaw in whatever tale you concocted to force my return?".

She rolled her eyes at that, "What would the purpose be?", she cried.

"Publicity", he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "The 'haunted opera house' is missing it's main attraction isn't it? That's why you need me, to make up for in novelty whatever you people lack in quality".

Her mind turned first to Christine when she had begun her career as Prima Donna, so afraid but so determined. And she had held her head high despite everything and sung with her Valkyrie's voice, and the theatre had gone silent, quieted by wonder alone. Displaying something none would have believed she possessed until that opening night, strength. With no one to lean on, or catch her if she fell, she had shone with her own brilliance.

And then she pictured that same girl, who had been so powerful on stage, curled in on herself in her bed, still wearing the costume she had not possessed the energy to remove, her breath coming scant and shallow, her eyes clamped shut against pain, a shaking hand, a weakly fluttering pulse. All the while rasping on overworked vocal chords that she was fine and they shouldn't bother with her.

She could never manufacture something like that.

"How dare you!", she sprung to her feet, "Forget how little faith you have in me, how dare you insult our work! Insult her! What I stopped myself telling you? Meg wrote to me that her condition has worsened after my departure, she sleepwalks now Erik! And do you know what she does?".

"Do tell!", he sneered.

"She wanders the catacombs! Looking for you!", even though she could not see his face she sensed that his fierce expression had dissipated, but he had pushed her and now she would tell him, "My daughter tells me they found her near the lake one night and no matter what they tried she would not wake and Meg asks her why she goes there and she says 'I have to find my angel, he will know how to fix this, he will help me'".

For a moment his eyes shone suspiciously in the half light and in the next they went cold once more, "In sleep only", he said bitterly.

"The subconscious doesn't lie, you know that, it's incapable of it", she reminded.

"Even if she did want me there it's no longer my concern. She made her choice, now let the Vicomte protect her, it's his duty isn't it?", it was impossible to miss the resentful edge in his words.

To his statement she shook her head, "Raoul went away. They had a row three months ago. I think he had always believed that once they married she would stop performing. One evening something about when she can put Opera behind her slips out. Well you can imagine how little she cared for that, he tried to tell her it wasn't a position befitting a lady and she told him she would rather die an old maid than give up her career. He says he should let her do just that for how little gratitude she is showing him and stormed out".

"You expect me to believe that?", he challenged, more willing to call her a liar than allow hope.

"She isn't like you remember. Maybe she would have gone along with Vicomte's wishes if she were, but everything that has transpired altered her. I'm not sure of how to describe it to you", he would understand for himself if he saw first hand, "But she can't protect herself from these business men, they made her sign all manner of contracts after she was no longer shielded by The Vicomte. They took advantage of her horribly from the beginning, she's a reasonably bright girl but she's no lawyer and she couldn't afford one at the time. By the time she was able to hire one they had her bound up good and tight, the attorneys say there is nothing they can do for her. Don't you see? You're the only one who can stop them".

"Madame I-", he began, and she could feel that he would decline, knew she must not let him.

She put a hand to his shoulder, very slightly, but nothing got his attention like physical contact, it's foreign nature.

"For her sake", she plead, "The Phantom of the Opera must come back".

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_**Please review, feedback is always tremendously appreciated.**_


	2. Reality

**_I am amazed how quickly this chapter came out. Hopefully this inspired streak holds. : )_**

**_I hope everyone enjoys the chapter._**

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Christine Daae just wanted to sleep.

Just some sleep, was that really too much to ask? Her managers seemed to think so.

She was fairly certain that she had some sort of respiratory infection, she'd been battling a harsh cough that stole her very breath away for the previous three days. A disappointing turn of events, she'd thought she was on the mend from her cold and now this. She pushed sweat dampened curls from her flushed face, wishing for all the world that she hadn't gotten out of bed that morning. It had seemed right at the time to try and go about her day as she ordinarily would, she hadn't wished to inconvenience the rest of the cast with her absence, but it looked as of her presence were doing more harm than good in this case.

She sighed and adjusted the heavy costume around her shoulders, wishing there at least wasn't so much metal involved, the heavy, silver accessory had been digging into her collarbone all morning and she was certain it had rubbed her shoulders raw in places, she would need to cover them the moment they let her out of rehearsal or it would never heal.

"Christine!", someone exclaimed and nudged her shoulder, unintentionally forcing the offending necklace to dig in further. She just barely contained a flinch and turned to see Meg Giry's teasing smile, "You missed your cue Prima Donna", she laughed.

Despite her exhaustion Christine managed to summon a weak smile in return, knowing she meant well.

She tried not to contemplate all of the engagements scheduled for her after this session concluded and forced her mind to instead empty of all but the music.

It came easily now, no longer mechanical and forced, a mighty swell of sound that she could summon to her lips at will. A voice that did not merely play notes, but told a story, she could bring laughter or tears, or anything she wished, thanks to her training.

"Forget all of this", he had told her.

How could she when his gift to her rang clear from her throat upon her command, when the very structure she called home was a monument to his vision. She found herself for the first time appreciating the intricacies of the opera house, how efficient the lay out was, the way every detail had been given attention, nothing left to chance. She had mentioned it to Meg once but she had received only a very odd look in response.

She had known even before that wretched stand off in the cellars that this building was his creation, but it was not until she had been forced to study architecture that she had actually understood the kind of care that had to have gone in to creating something so complicated.

She had been forced to study many subjects actually. She had not learned until she stepped into the role, to the fill the shoes of a grieving Carlotta, that Prima Donna was much more than simply singing the most during a production. It was interviews, it was meetings with countless personnel, it was charm, and charisma, and being able to carry on a sparkling conversation with anyone about anything.

She hadn't realized her education had been so narrow until it was broadened. She was by no means an expert on anything but she knew now, how to discuss politics, how to look at art with a discerning eye, how to search for the hidden meanings of a novel, even some rudimentary math.

And music theory most of all, she found it mind bogglingly complicated but with every little piece of knowledge she gained she was better able to find the rhyme and reason behind the works the managers handed to her.

Opinions were a large part of it as well. The public's certainly, without a paying audience the whole system fell apart (though she still had yet to learn economics), but also her own. She had to force herself to view things through a critical lens, where before she would simply follow her natural inclination to find something positive to say about whatever book, painting, piece of music, or person she encountered she was now expected to scrutinize for flaw. Apparently such was the mark of the true celebrity.

In hindsight she wondered how much of Carlotta's eccentricity was an organically dramatic personality and how much of it was the expectation of her to be outrageously particular.

Her musings carried through the rest of rehearsal and by the time it reached it's conclusion she had decided she would seek the older first soprano for advice when Carlotta seemed up to it.

Before she wouldn't have dared approach the Diva but with both of her...usual companions...out of the picture and Madame Giry on some mysterious quest...she hadn't pressed the ballet master too much on the matter. She said what she wished and no more, had always been that way and likely always would be.

She had Meg, and she was certainly a good friend, but this was simply something that Meg, despite her efforts, would not understand. In many ways the girl was more mature than she was, but in others the difference in their life experience felt as vast as an ocean. She couldn't explain the sensation that beset her now, she had everything she had ever dreamed of, but no one to share it with.

She wished yet again that her father were alive. He could have told her how to handle all of this, he would have been there to calm her nerves before a performance (which had been something of a trial early on) and congratulate her when it ended. She had always tried to deal with those precious to her with great care, always, so why was it that she always lost them? Where was the justice in it?

She shook her head and tried to push away that bitterness that always seemed to threaten at the edges of her heart recently. She would not hate, she would not destroy her soul that way, she couldn't let it consume her.

But she had come dangerously close after Raoul's departure.

At first she could not understand it, why a man who had risked his life for the sake of her freedom could not accept that she had hopes for herself she was not willing to forfeit. It had taken weeks of contemplation that was shamefully obsessive and some long talks with Meg before she thought she could satisfactorily explain her former fiance's actions.

Raoul had grown up in a fairy tale, much like she had before her father passed, and there was a certain way things were supposed to occur. He had been willing to risk his life because it was an ordinary, acceptable courage that, that act had required. But he lacked sorely in bravery in a different sort, he had not the valor to risk his reputation. Not even for her happiness.

Christine was no stranger to that fear, she liked little more than pleasing the people around her. Being agreeable, singing them pretty songs, seeing the smile she received in return, she needed that approval more than she cared to admit.

But it was not the highest authority of her heart like it was Raoul's.

She supposed she should have counted herself fortunate that she discovered it before both of their lives were destroyed. Despite her best efforts if he kept her from her dreams she would come to resent him, she did not come to dislike anyone easily but those who threatened her freedom fell very definitively into that sparsely populated category.

If she were herself of even a year ago she would have complied because he was her friend, and a vicomte, and he said he loved her.

But she wasn't the same person. She wasn't the girl who's scarf Raoul had once saved, certainly not Little Lotte. She wasn't a child. And she could never go back.

She was an adult, with the responsibilities of a career. With the emotions and desires that came with being a grown woman. With the ability to decide her own fate. With a heavy conscience, a broken heart to own to.

"Forget all of this", the words echoed in her mind again, she barely repressed an incredulous laugh.

No, what he had done could never be undone. He had taught her, her own power. Sometimes she felt she out to be on her knees thanking him for it, others she cursed him and felt he should be on _his_ knees begging _her_ forgiveness.

It frightened her, how angry she still was at him. One night, when her feelings got the better of her, she had risen from her bed and gone and sat before the two way mirror in her dressing room. She had called out, "Are you happy now?", her voice trembled with tears she refused to shed, "Are you? You won! I don't want him now! I don't know what I want! I don't even know who I am anymore!".

Her voice was rising beyond her control, something she normally felt only while singing but suddenly the dam broke and she screamed, "You can't do this to me! You can't turn the world upside down and then just disappear!", despite her fierce attempts she felt dampness on her cheeks, "Damn you!", and then for the first time in her life she struck something.

Her fist connected with the mirror with more force than she had ever thought she was capable of, it did not shatter, but a long, jagged fracture appeared upon the polished surface.

What did break was her thumb. She had pulled back with a stunned cry, realizing belatedly that she had kept the appendage on the interior of her other fingers when she made to deliver the blow. It was with no small amount of embarrassment that she went to Meg who had helped her set the fractured bone and bound it tightly with a heavy bandage that she still kept wrapped around her hand to prevent re-injury.

She was fortunate in that no one asked what had happened. How did she ever begin to explain what she had done without sounding as though what she had endured had stripped her of her faculties after all.

She was headed for that very same room at present, as fast as propriety allotted for she made her way down the busy path ways that lead to privacy and quiet. She nearly had to stop on the way, the minimal exertion of her hurried journey left her lungs aching, the instant she had closed the door behind her she gasped and gave into the coughing fit that had been threatening all morning, sinking to the floor, her weight supported by the polished wood at her back. She only just had the presence of mind to retrieve her handkerchief from the top of her vanity to catch the blood tinged fluid rising from her chest.

She attempted to slow her breathing as she had been taught to, trying to inflict as little trauma as possible upon her already overworked vocal chords. For several moments it felt as though she were taking in no air at all, and then, slowly, she regained control and the painful spasms subsided. She shuddered with distaste and wiped her mouth with the cloth before giving the soiled material a careful toss into her laundry bin. One of the facility's many maids would collect it.

The second she could do so without triggering another attack she stood and began pulling off the costume, the necklace in particular, she wrenched from her body resentfully. When healthy, she would be lying if she claimed not to love the elaborate garments, but upon a weakened body they were excruciating.

With practiced determination she did not allow herself so much as a glance into the depths of the damaged mirror, and robed herself in the most comfortable dress she could find almost as rapidly as she had taken her previous ensemble off. It was only early afternoon and she did not have to be anywhere for a full three hours, more than enough to sleep, she could change into her night dress when she returned to her room. As silly as it seemed to don a gown simply for a five minute walk the hassle was worth avoiding the scandal of wandering about in her sleepwear in broad daylight. She simply hurried on her way, keeping her head down and her gaze averted from anyone she encountered, attempting to signal silently to her colleagues that she possessed no desire to be caught in a conversation.

She no longer lived in a dormitory with the dancers, she had been given her own suite, a large, comfortable studio style room and attached with a far larger bed than she would ever need and an area she had screened off and transformed into a little sitting room. It was a comfortable medium, she would be lying if se said she didn't enjoy having her own space, but she didn't think she could bare the isolation that came with moving out of the opera house either.

She began to remove her current dress, when her head began to swim, she creased her brow, hoping if she simply concentrated hard enough on her task the sensation would pass. It worked for perhaps an instant and then her shaky fingers slipped on the buttons and the ground seemed to spin beneath her feet. She groaned, half in discomfort, half in frustration and shoved the garment from her body.

She only just made it into bed, still clad only in her chemise and corset, before her vision tinged a myriad of brilliant colors at the edges, a loud ringing erupted in her ears and she twisted her hands in the duvet, bared her teeth against the sound. In a vain attempt to escape the pain she shifted and felt that the sheets beneath her were already wet with perspiration despite the chills that wracked her, making her shake.

The severity of this episode was beginning to frighten her and she thought she should call for help but she couldn't make her mouth obey her commands, she tried to push herself up so she could go and locate someone to assist her but the moment her head left the pillow the room lurched again and went black.

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She heard voices somewhere that seemed impossibly far overhead. A lantern flickered, as hazy as the sun from beneath the surface of the sea, at the edge of the bleary picture. Beyond it's little sphere of light resided darkness that to her fevered mind stretched on forever.

Suddenly there was unbearable cold against her sternum, round and smooth, a stethoscope, though it seemed an instrument of torture at the moment.

"What has her, monsieur", a very familiar, very french voice inquired from somewhere in the depths of the blackness.

Despite everything Christine smiled, Madame Giry had returned. She made to greet her and tell her how pleased she was to see her again but her throat was gripped by searing agony and she could not force so much as a whisper. Suddenly her concerned face was hovering over her next to what she assumed was the doctor's and saying, "Do not speak cherrie, your voice is very delicate right now, you may ruin it forever if you talk now".

"Quite true", the doctor agreed, "And to answer your question Madame I need to conduct some more test but I think it very unlikely that this is consumption".

Consumption, she thought to herself, dread coiling it's self into her stomach, the death sentence. She wanted to cry out, to beg him to be certain that she was not in the clutches of that terrible infection.

"You think, or you know?", yet another voice bit out roughly from even further away.

A beautiful, terrible, voice.

Despite their warnings not to make any sound she laughed, and the more she attempted to cease the more powerfully mirth came. For she knew what she had heard could not be real, which could mean only one thing...

...She had actually lost her mind...

"I think it may be best if we sedate her", the doctor murmured and the look on his face read clearly that her sudden amusement unnerved him. Which she also found terribly funny.

The prick of a needle and then nothingness once more.

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When she woke again the darkness had gone and dawn was breaking, the first crimson rays of sunrise peaked through her bedroom window, throwing various parts of the room into clarity and distortion alternately, when she tried to make sense of the pattern her head throbbed and she clamped her eyes shut, a groan found it's way past her lips. Her throat contracted dryly in protest and she made unsuccessfully for the water someone had left on the table beside her bed.

She did not hear foot falls, but suddenly there was a hand at her back, helping her to sit up, and the cup had been thrust into her hands, a silent command to drink.

Her first thought was to be extremely grateful for her old ballet master's intuition because there was no possible way she could have articulated what she need.

And then the hand supporting her shifted to get a better grip, and the movement was no more than centimeters but that was all it took for a finger to brush her shoulder blade. The tremendous coldness in them all the more marked to her overheated person.

She froze.

There was a scent in the air, both familiar and foreign, something like night air and ash, and the appendage keeping her upright was far too large to belong to a woman. The air in the room it's self seemed to have changed, where before it was comfortable and very much her own now it felt tenuous, and almost alive. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

She wanted to face, wanted to tell him of her grievances, of his crimes against her, wanted to speak to him again because as pathetic as it was, she had missed him.

But the moment she even contemplated opening her eyes she found herself returned to her original position, the water replaced on the night stand, and the room deserted.

He might not have been there at all.

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_**How was it? What do you think of Christine's characterization? Let me know. : )**_


	3. Resolution

_**In hindsight there are a few things I failed to mention.**_

_**First: There is a strong influence by the Kay Novel "Phantom", I know opinions vary in regard to the piece but I personally think it is brilliant and makes this world that much more rich and interesting.**_

_**Secondly: I do not own "Phantom of the Opera". **_

_**Thank you everyone for your kind reviews, they mean a great deal to me. I hope this next installment is found to be enjoyable.**_

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If Erik had held any doubts as to the honesty of Madame Giry's claims they vanished the moment he stepped into that room.

He recognized Christine's form in the bed only in the most literal way that one perceives the world around them, he could_ see_ that it was her, but even as she slept her persona had changed so dramatically it was almost tangible. He was barely aware of Giry trailing anxiously behind him as he approached her, trance-like, to get a better look.

Her face had changed, the final vestiges of child hood softness had gone and each beautiful feature stood out with a new clarity. Her smooth brow, her large, heavily lidded eyes, her small, straight nose, the curve of full lips so seductive they almost seemed out of place on such a delicately constructed visage. Her jaw had sharpened and her cheeks had hollowed such that on another they might have been too harsh to be appealing but this too suited her.

Had she been healthy and whole her great beauty would have predominated over any other quality, however, it did nothing to overcome the black circles that ringed her closed eyes nor her pallor, so pronounced that for a single, terrible moment he wondered if death had already claimed her. It was not until he saw the subtle expansion of her ribcage (too rapid, too slight) that oxygen came easily to his own lungs.

He knelt beside her and slipped the glove from his hand, forcing himself to ignore the pang of discomfort physical contact always brought. He took the frightfully thin wrist nearest him into his hand and settled the pads of his fingers against her veins, counting each faint beat carefully.

After a moment his brow furrowed behind his mask, surely that couldn't be right? He made a second attempt, this time holding her arm close to his ear so he could ensure his number was accurate, only to drop it a moment later in alarm when his efforts yielded the same result.

Every one of his instincts was screaming, neigh, pleading, that he must be wrong, but he knew what he had heard and his ears did not lie. Eighteen beats every six seconds, one hundred eighty beats per minute, even though she was obviously deeply asleep. Worse yet there was almost no discernible pattern to her pulse, the palpitations were a horrific thing to behold. It was the pitiful, stuttering, music of the dying, two beats forced into the space of one, another missed entirely, the strength of each desperate contraction of the muscle variable from force enough to damage her chest cavity to wholly undetectable.

Overwhelming guilt washed over him, unbidden, but not undeserved. Had he stayed he could have protected her, from these new managers and from her own naivety, before so much damage could be done. He was convinced now, more than ever, that Christine was not cut from a resilient cloth, she may have changed somehow, he could sense that much, but one could not alter the very nature of what they were. She could not strengthen herself anymore than glass could become stone.

He caught Madame Giry's worried gaze over his shoulder, her normally impassive face pinched almost uncharacteristically with concern, "Can you discern what is wrong?", she inquired at length.

"Not without more information", he heard himself reply, only half aware of the conversation as he carefully sorted through every possible malady, devising an efficient method to discover the culprit, "Have you any way to measure her body temperature?".

She nodded, "I will send someone to fetch a thermometer", without another word she slipped from the room, quiet and graceful despite her increasing age, a ballerina through and through. And efficient as she was devoted to her craft, he appreciated her unaffected nature immensely, she never pried or burdened him with inane chatter, something even Nadir was guilty of.

In the quiet that followed the ballet master's departure he summoned courage enough to stroke the back of her hand gently. He barely repressed a shudder, not at the touch, but at the how much the contrast between the appearance of their respective limbs had decreased. Hers still retained it's feminine grace and was smooth, a counter point to the stark angularity and prominent joints that characterized his own. But he could make out the fine bones, which vaguely recalled the delicate construction of a bird, and dark blood vessels that criss crossed, just barely hidden by her soft skin. His eyes traced the path of one until it disappeared where hand met tiny fingers, delicate and slender, ending in a lovely taper. He noted that she wore no ring, not one of marriage or engagement, not even a purely ornamental trinket, but her state was so grave that he could take no joy in the knowledge.

It was then that he noticed the faint blue tinge just barely ringing her nails. Slight, yes. Innocuous at first glance, but he had certainly witnessed enough oxygen deprivation to recognize it immediately as a symptom. This was an infection of the lungs, and a severe one at that.

His first thought was consumption but he had never seen a victim survive long enough to suffer hypoxia, one drowned in their own blood long before the body ceased to absorb oxygen properly. Moreover the disease was a slowly progressing one, death came in months of diagnosis, not days or weeks, and she certainly hadn't seemed to be ill when he had seen her last nearly a year prior. Though there always was the chance that he simply hadn't been observant enough. Tears pricked his eyes at the thought that he had put her though that even as her life had begun to gradually extinguish.

He forced himself to draw a series of slow breaths through his nose, trying to calm himself, he would do her no good if he were too emotional to think clearly. He was no physician but his limited experience both as healer and patient would have to suffice until a real one could be summoned. Hopefully Madame Giry had possessed the presence of mind to request a professional the moment she had encountered Christine, otherwise they could lose potentially precious time.

He found an odd reassurance in the fact that Giry was as much in the dark as he was because it meant they hadn't had need of a doctor to deliver a diagnosis, it meant this hadn't happened before, it meant there might still be something he could do.

As if the universe were set at proving him wrong at every turn she stirred in her sleep and coughed, a wretched, choking sound that forced him to recall a knife in his hands and a slit throat. He had seen many terrible things, scenes gruesome enough to leave irreversible scars upon the mind, yet he still flinched when blood suddenly dripped down her chin and trailed onto the pillow.

One might have thought that would be the end of it, but the fit was far from done and she continued to bring up more fluid, until he was certain there could be nothing left to expel but she would simply cough harder and the result would be the same. If this didn't cease she may actually bleed out before his eyes.

Had he known if she had a fever he might have devised a way to warm the room, heat supposedly soothed the respiratory tract, but without that knowledge he could just as easily kill her in the attempt. Admittedly she might die less painfully, fever numbed the senses near the end and the victim merely slipped away, unaware they were burning alive. An enviable end.

Were she certainly upon her death bed he might have been able to steel himself long enough to end her suffering. After making the necessary preparations of course, even if it were an act of mercy the blood staining her sheets would be on his hands, he could be many things for Christine, but not her murderer. No, with his extensive knowledge of workings of the body he was certain he could orchestrate it so he was forced to out live her only by seconds.

He was grateful when Madame Giry returned and her voice pulled him from his morbid speculation, "How is she?", the older woman asked.

He gestured to the scene before him roughly, "See for yourself".

Giry craned her neck to see over his shoulder, taking in the grim picture with a little gasp, "Is she-", she seemed quite unable to finish.

"She's alive", he replied, quickly and forcefully, speaking the words was as much for his own benefit as hers.

The Ballet Master shook her head for a moment, her gesture expressed more than any of her words might have, "Thank god I already called the doctor", she whispered.

"God does not care", he replied flatly and settled himself on the floor to wait.

* * *

Pneumonia.

Certainly not an affliction to be taken lightly but at least there was something that could be done for her. The relief he felt must have been tangible as he lowered himself into a chair in the far corner of the room.

The doctor had left her with a veritable pharmacy of substances, some meant to cure, and some meant merely to control the symptoms. He had set immediately about checking each and every one to ensure they were undamaged and that they were actually what the labels claimed them to be. Once he was satisfied that she was not liable to be poisoned he had sat down to contemplate what he might do with himself while she recovered.

Meticulous by nature, Erik rarely went in to any situation without an abundance of knowledge and at least one carefully prepared plan of attack. So it spoke volumes about just how lost he felt at the moment as he mulled over the fact that he had absolutely no idea how he should conduct himself when Christine awoke.

If he were to be honest with himself he would say that he longed for reconciliation with her. One might think that if the object of one's affections scorned them and chose another it would diminish the strength of their feelings.

They would be sadly mistaken.

Oh, he was angry of course. Tremendously angry, the kind of fury that festered and consumed given long enough. But not at her, as simple as that would have made everything, it was the whole sordid situation. It was his cursed face and her siren's voice and the vicomte's natural fortune and his horrific personal history and her naivety and the cruel nature of existence.

A vicious little shred of hope was quick to remind him that the Vicomte had gone, that she may have chosen the boy over him, but she chose the music above all, their shared love. That brief time in which they had managed to interact with some semblance of normalcy had been full of music, did it ever call forth some fondness for that those short weeks? And if she could look back upon those memories with affection then perhaps-

"No", he felt the word pass rough from his lips with such force that he managed to startle himself.

He would not allow himself to resume his futile efforts. It would seem reasonable that after such a thorough defeat he would have learned his lesson yet he returned eagerly, again making himself vulnerable to further injury, fresh wounds. He wondered not for the first time if all he had endured throughout the course of his life had left him with some manner of sick masochistic tendency.

A part of him knew that this could only end badly. There was just too much between them to attempt any conventional sort of friendship, the memory of the monster buried within him was surely ingrained into her memory just as thoroughly as the memory of her kiss was burned into his. Who or what would be the casualty this time? They had both nearly been unhinged the before, would they drown fully in madness? Would an actual life be lost? If there had to be a victim he would gladly volunteer, better to perish in the catastrophe than be forced to survive it's aftermath.

He must not interact with her, he decided. If history were any indicator, and he believed firmly that it was, then any attempt to socialize on his part resulted in disaster, therefore he should avoid it. She need not even know he had returned, Madame Giry had asked him to protect her from the management and he would do no more and no less. He could guard her just as easily as an unseen shadow, as he had done previously.

She might suspect of course but as long as he was careful she could never have anything more substantial than a vague sense of the truth.

It would hurt, he looked back on those days of unseen observance, consumed with a desperate longing, with the same abhor that he had once reserved only for his time as the Shah's assassin. But there was no possibility of his ever be granted his dearest desire, all that was left for him now was too accept it and try to prevent any further devastation.

He belonged to the darkness, and the more he attempted to deny that the more suffering it would cause, he must close his eyes to whatever light may lay beyond it. There was no point in pretending that there was any other place for him.

* * *

He leaned his back against the corridor wall and cursed his own stupidity. If he had been even a second slower she would have seen him and his resolution to avoid her would have been rendered meaningless before he had managed so much as a day.

As he reclined slack against the oak paneling, attempting to collect himself, the sounds of countless performers and staff waking reached his ears. Soon the halls would be full of people and he, the dreaded Opera Ghost, must conceal himself quickly or risk inciting a pandemonium not even he could escape.

He knew what came now, a task almost as difficult as his self-mandated avoidance of Christine. Without any conscious command his feet began to take their familiar path to her dressing room and the secret passage concealed within.

Time to see what had become of his home.

* * *

_**As always, I adore any and all reviews. : )**_


	4. Revelations

_**The following is my answer to all of the fics in which Christine is always helpless and has no mind of her own, which I can't stand. To me it seems inevitable that the events of the original novel would cause her to mature.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

Christine sat on the edge of her bed, calmly rewrapping her hand with a fresh bandage, thoroughly convinced that she was on the cusp of insanity.

Nothing out of the ordinary had happened per say, at least nothing concrete enough that she could state with any kind of confidence what every one of her instincts was telling her to be true.

If anything it was what hadn't happened that had her fearing for her mental health. She would walk into her room at night to find things conveniently laid out that she could have sworn she hadn't moved, but of course whenever she checked all of her possessions were exactly how she had always organized them. Or she might oversleep and rush to rehearsals only to find that they had conveniently been postponed for an hour. One day she fainted during one of her solos, which the doctor told her was likely due to simple exhaustion and that she really ought to try and sleep better, and before she could ever make the trip to an establishment in which she could refill her empty vial of laudanum she found the container full to the brim in her cabinet.

She knew full well that she had not simply forgotten that she had already attended to it, she always kept careful stock of her belongings, a habit ingrained since she had assumed the role of house keeper shortly after her mother's death.

Someone had put it there. Never mind that not a thing was out of place or that her careful inspection of the door had yielded no evidence of a break in. There was no rational explanation to give, his presence lingered so strongly it was almost tangible. She kept awaiting the day that he would make a mistake and give himself away, but two weeks had passed since the incident with the water glass and there hadn't been a single slip-up since. She was slowly but surely on the mend, she didn't have a fever anymore, the coughing fits, while still bloody, had decreased in both frequency and intensity, and little by little her strength was returning as her body was finally granted the rested it had so desperately needed.

Oddly enough the management had yet to raise issue with her extended absence, even though her contract stated that any leave she may take must be explicitly approved by them. She knew it was not simply out of compassion or the goodness of their hearts that they did not harass her. She couldn't know for sure, but if she had to guess she would speculate that they may have come across a rather threatening letter regarding the matter. For a moment she was seized with the irrational urge to go and search their offices for just such a note, but she brushed it aside with no small amount of irritation with herself. As if they would be fool enough to leave something like that just lying around. The only thing going through their possessions would accomplish was getting her thrown out of The Opera House and possibly into the Parisian City Prison.

As her well being returned she became increasingly more determined to see him. Truthfully she wasn't entirely certain why he was avoiding her, she could guess of course that his motivation may fall somewhere within the emotions of sadness, guilt, and anger. But if he had truly meant to hide why resume all of those tiny little gestures that seemed as if they might be passed off as chance singularly, but on the whole were obvious enough that he may as well have announced his return with a fanfare of trumpets?

Moreover she didn't care to analyze to deeply why it was so important to her to see him. By all rights she should never have wanted to speak to him again, yet she often slipped into rehearsing in her mind exactly what she say to him if given the opportunity and when she felt that her speech had been perfected she would spend the rest of the day unbearably anxious for the encounter to occur.

She was becoming increasingly certain that if she ever hoped to confront him directly she would have to take matters into her own hands.

Christine did not consider herself to be half as clever as he was, however, in this case he had obviously grossly underestimated her powers of observation and she would use that to her advantage.

She rose and checked that her door was bolted and then inspected all corners of her apartment, including the area beneath her bed and inside her wardrobe. She appeared to be truly alone.

She fetched a hair pin from her armoire and made her way over to the bedside table where all of her many medications currently resided. For a long moment she contemplated her selection carefully, and then plucked two bottles from the center of the array.

Ordinarily she set each container so the label faced outward, into the room. Now however, she took the pin and carefully scored the side of each of the two vials and replaced the them in such a manner that the tiny scratches faced out, if he turned them at all she would know, even if he noticed the marks he would have to perfectly match what she had done in order to conceal the fact that he had been setting the proper dosages out for her while she went about her day.

It wasn't that she minded so much these tiny gestures, but she hated that he refused to reveal himself. The more egotistic side of her decried his actions as an insult to her intelligence, did he really think she would assume that it was just good luck that all these little aspects of her life were suddenly running so smoothly? Did he believe her so forgetful that she wouldn't remember that this was exactly how it had started before?

She hoped that she was wrong but even if he hadn't meant it as such the insult still stung. It also begged the question why someone like him would even be interested in her in the first place.

She supposed she could understand how men her own age would take a liking to her admittedly extremely youthful appearance and Meg had told her more than once that an agreeable nature nature was more important even than beauty because of how much the male species loved to feel as if they were in charge.

But Erik had clearly seen and done so much, even if he had not explicitly detailed all that, that encompassed, and she doubted any part of him was drawn to her particular brand of silly, overly sheltered, ignorance.

So _why_? Why her? It was all she could think after she had taken his mask from him that fateful morning as she watched sobs wrack the body of the notorious Opera Ghost. She couldn't fathom what on earth it was that allowed her to reduce someone who seemed so utterly unbreakable to such a state, it had frightened her beyond all reason. Not simply for the reaction it incited but because it was something so wholly beyond her awareness or control. Because he had seemed such a source of strength and whenever she was weak and uncertain it was her support. And suddenly it was he who was vulnerable and frightened and she knew he needed her but she hadn't the vaguest of notions how to help him and panic seemed to render her mind utterly blank. She could only sit transfixed and watch the scene unfold before her, immobilized by her own fear of a volatile situation being placed entirely in her hands.

It was the first time anyone had regarded her as wholly capable of controlling not only herself but those around her and instead of rising to the occasion she had frozen and then fled like a frightened child straight to someone who would never put her in such a daunting position ever again. Unwilling to admit that for one thrilling moment she had seen though his eyes, right past who she was, to what slept within; a woman more than formidable enough to hold just such a heart at her fingertips.

It was _flattering_, she could not deny it pleased her that he thought so much of her potential. Certainly this belied the times he had called her weak?

And god help her she had wanted to be that person more than she had ever wanted anything. To forget propriety and tradition and everything that had been instilled in her since before she could even talk. It would be so easy, all her manners and virtue, all the times she had kept her head down and a smile on her face when all she had wanted to do was scream, suddenly felt shameful instead of good and right, as they had seemed at the time. Fake! It was all fake! Everything about her was fake! And instead of wondering what was wrong with her to feel so much pent up hostility as she ought to have done, she felt as though all of her attempts at decency had tainted her somehow.

_I'm the one wearing the mask_.

The words were on the tip of her tongue but when she made to speak whatever spell that had fallen over her broke.

In the next instant cold reality returned and with it came horror. Not at him, though he was quick enough to assume the worst of her alarm, but at what he seemed to have awakened within her. What would her father think if he knew the moral little girl he had tried to raise was so power hungry, and selfish, and angry? How could she even look at herself in a mirror each morning knowing that she harbored such ugly feelings?

That was not the person she should be. She should be dreaming of safety and stability, a respectable marriage, a beautiful house, lovely children in her lap, it was what any sane individual ought to hope for. Yet suddenly that all seemed to loose it's allure in the face of the alternative. Freedom, and not the sort of freedom that simply meant she could come and go as she pleased, though she knew that if she insisted enough he would release her. What he could offer her was freedom of the soul, to be whoever she desired and know she would be loved for it.

She had tried so hard in the months that followed to forget that brief flash of insight, but the damage was already done. She had thought her blossoming relationship and then impending marriage with Raoul would be enough to remind her of what truly mattered. If anyone could chase away the darkness that seemed to hide within her it was him, he was gentle, uncomplicated, and more than willing to take the reigns should she ever feel overwhelmed. They were _so_ happy together, his perpetual good nature warmed her heart as nothing had since her father passed away.

Yet even that hadn't been enough to ward off the discontentment and rebellion breeding within her. She felt it, always there, raw and menacing, simmering, just below the surface. There were days she couldn't believe such negative emotions really belonged to her or how she had not noticed them before. In her desperation to prove to herself that she was still fundamentally honorable and good she had condemned Erik, called him a monster. But he wasn't, at least not entirely, and she knew that fully well. Her hatred had nothing to do with who or even what he was, it was what he evoked in her that made her want so badly to put distance between them.

He had killed people! Had stolen, and threatened, and deceived and shown not even a flicker of remorse in doing so, and those were just the crimes she knew about! What sort of things did it say about her that she could not summon loathing enough to outweigh her sympathy, that the two of them suddenly did not seem so different?

The night Raoul left she had said terrible things to him, she was't certain what about his assumption had triggered her fit of temper, but the moment he had said it was so fortunate that they would soon be able to forget all of this business with Opera something inside her had snapped.

_They had been out for a walk on one of her rare increasingly rare days off. Raoul had collected her from the Opera House early that morning so they could spend the day together in it's entirety, they had visited her favorite bakery for breakfast, then amused themselves by visiting the countless shops that lined the streets of Paris until their feet hurt, skipped lunch entirely in favor of watching the swans on the lake, had supper at a little bistro that he had claimed was to die for (she would have to agree), and sunset finally found them idly strolling through the streets of the business district._

_The ill fated conversation had begun innocently enough with talk of wedding plans, progressed to where they might live, and finally when they might move there._

_Even though he had never stated so explicitly Christine had always though that when they spoke of moving it meant in several years time once she was happily retired_

_Perhaps it was because it was her only outlet for all of her conflicting emotions, perhaps it was because it had been such a large part of her life for so long, perhaps it was because the music was the one remaining thread of connection to some of the most important people in her life._

_But next she knew she had rounded on him and distantly she heard a voice snap, "Implying what?", it was only when she felt a rough grating in her throat that she realized that she was the one who had spoken._

_For his part, Raoul was staring at her with blatant surprise written across his handsome features, accompanied by no small amount of uneasiness. He opened his mouth to speak but words seemed to fail him..._

_"Implying", she responded for him, "That you want to pretend I was never an opera singer", the words were not screamed, or growled, or even whispered. She spoke them with that matter of fact colorlessness which one uses to address truths that they wished were not truths._

_He sighed and gazed at her imploringly, as if he could will her to understand, "I think your singing is lovely", he told her gently, "But my family is unlikely to find it an acceptable thing for you to pursue. I'm sorry"._

_She turned her face away from him because if she saw his distress her strength would leave her and this was a matter on which she did not want to bend, "I'm sorry as well", she began, her voice was as gentle as she could force it to be at the moment, she hoped it might atone for her severity moments ago, "But I'm not giving up my music"._

_"Christine, be reasonable!", he cried, seemingly aghast at the suggestion that she would go against his wishes, that she would not submit. _

_Her hands clenched involuntarily against her skirts and she leveled her gaze at the ground so he would not see how much his words had angered her, was it truly too much to allow her this liberty? He couldn't bare to acquiesce this one and only time? An overwhelming sense of betrayal made her eyes sting, though she steadied herself enough to prevent embarrassing tears. Raoul, her dear playmate Raoul, who had seen how special music was to her father, how important it was to them both, and later how it helped her to feel close to him after he was gone. And even given that he was willing to threaten what was precious to her for the sake of other's approval?_

_"Reasonable?", she echoed resentfully, "That has nothing to do with it. You know what performing means to me, how could you try to take that away from me?"._

_"I'm not trying to steal something from you!", he held her eyes with his imploringly, "I'm asking you to be sensible, you can not ask me to displease my relatives for the sake of you continuing this pursuit, you are a sensible girl Christine, I'm sure you already recognize the truth in my words"._

_"So you would sooner hurt me than their opinion of you?", she muttered. She shook her head in disbelief at his callousness, he was supposed to be her fiance, her friend. Yet here she stood feeling betrayed, he knew she could not bare to hurt him, that she wanted so much to make him happy, that she would give up her very life for him. But she knew as she watched him through the veil of her eye lashes, cautiously, because the boy she thought she knew suddenly seemed like a stranger, that there were things she was incapable of sacrificing. That she would not part with something as intrinsic to who she was as music, she would not surrender her self._

_"This isn't about hurting you", his brow furrowed, "This is about compromising, relationships always require a little sacrifice". He made it sound so reasonable, so obvious, so easy._

_But this was how any dispute between them was always settled, she would stand her ground at first and then he would gradually talk her around until she apologized, feeling terribly guilty for causing the disagreement in the first place. It was never an argument, at least not according to him, simply discussions, yet he always seemed to win. She doubted he even did it consciously, of course everyone thought they had the right way of going about things, but he was so used to getting his way and her desire to avoid conflict certainly hadn't helped matters._

_Perhaps she wouldn't even have noticed that particular pattern of interaction before recent events, but just as she was learning that her heart wasn't as gentle as she had thought, she also found that her mind wasn't as dull as she had initially assumed. Some days it seemed to her as of she were noticing everything for the first time._

_The good and the bad._

_"What do you know of sacrifice?", she asked suddenly._

_"Pardon?", he spluttered, clearly startled by the question._

_"Tell me what you have sacrificed Raoul? What did you give up for the good of our future? You have your family, your reputation, your money, what is it that you have lost?", she demanded._

_His expression quickly became wounded. She sighed heavily, willing herself to find the words to explain that she did not intend to portray him as selfish, she simply wished to make a point._

_"Raoul", she began gently, "What I meant was-"._

_"What you meant," he finished for her resentfully, seeming to her for all the world a petulant child, "Is that I don't do anything for you"._

_"No! That's not-"._

_"What else could you have been insinuating!"._

_"Only that-"._

_"I risked my life for you! Was prepared to die for you when that-that...thing!...that madman-"._

_"Stop it!"._

_Raoul recoiled as if she had struck him, his eyes widened with unadulterated shock. Christine never raised her voice._

_For once she didn't feel sorry to have upset someone. All she had wanted was to explain and he wouldn't even permit her to speak. She was tired of it, of being spoken over, of being drowned out and ignored. If she had to scream to make him hear her then so be it. He had no right to bring Erik into this, no right to speak as if he weren't a human being, no right to assume he knew her feelings. He was a taboo, not to be mentioned to her, she was trying to let go, she was trying to forget, for Raoul's sake as much as her own and there he went opening old wounds, picking at the scars._

_She lowered voice, trying to regain some control before she spoke, though she knew her modulated volume was little improvement as her words were painfully tight lipped, "You don't get to talk about him"._

_"I see", he murmured solemnly, "So that's what it takes to win your heart. What would you like Christine? Would you like me destroy a theatre, would you like me to kill, to prove my feelings?"._

_She had told herself she wouldn't cry but tears came unbidden to her eyes, she was unable to summon any other response to his sheer irrationality._

_"Why are you jealous of him?", she plead, "I chose you! I love you! Can you not see that!"._

_"I'm not", he denied stubbornly, "But I do think your expectations are a bit unreasonable. I've spent so much time talking them around as it is, couldn't we just be civilized about this? Do you feel no gratitude for what I've already done for you?"._

_"Raoul", she took a deep breath to steady herself, "I am grateful, but this is not about you. I won't bend on this, I'm not going to stop singing"._

_"My concern is for you", he assured her, "Do you think you will ever have respect if you perform on command like a trained animal?"._

_He seemed to have realized his slip the moment the words left his mouth but it did nothing to placate her. It hurt, to know that he thought so little of her profession, she had thought even if her vocation was unconventional she would have his support and admiration, but suddenly it felt as if she weren't good enough. His title had never meant anything to her but suddenly she felt his rank acutely, apparently the Vicomte de Chagny would not marry an opera singer._

_She was rarely prone to a diva's vanity but at the moment when his high station loomed over her she made herself resolute, La Daae did not give up her career to please a suitor. If she were simply Christine and he were simply her friend she would not have strength enough to stand up for herself, so she chose instead to slip behind the veneer of the successful Prima Donna who was far more bold than she could ever hope to be. If circumstances were more pleasant she might have laughed at how she had to pretend in order to tell the truth._

_"I would grow old alone before I would give up my music", she answered and though her voice was scarcely more than a whisper it carried with a ringing sort of finality._

_His shoulder's slumped and she could tell she had wounded him, but then his expression hardened and he seemed quite unlike himself and he said, "If that is your wish I will leave you to it"._

_He walked away from her without so much as a backward glance. Her emotions rose again at how easily he left her and she had to bite back a vicious retort so cruel it made her tears come harder that she would think such a thing._

_She couldn't be sure how, but somehow she stumbled back to the Opera House unencumbered, barely seeing what was in front of her as the moisture welling in her eyes obscured her vision. When she entered she heard distantly a few acquaintances call out a greeting but she ignored and continued the trek to the room she shared with Meg and the rest of the ballet corps., which suddenly gave the impression of being endless. She flung open the door and did not bother with the lamps lining the low tables that sat beside each bed, simply kicked off her shoes and sank down into her bunk by the window and finally gave into her grief, pressing a hand to her lips to stifle the noise._

_She must have fallen asleep, or at least slipped into some merciful state lower than consciousness for she was not aware of time passing but it must have because when she regained any sense of her surroundings Madame Giry was sitting beside her, rubbing her back and singing a lullaby in a language she didn't know, spanish or italian perhaps._

_"Tell me what happened?", she coaxed kindly._

_And Christine did, not just the evenings disastrous events, but all of the strange feelings that had precipitated it, she explained all of her discomfort, all of her confusion and the Ballet Master listened with the degree of attentiveness only a mother could possess._

_"I'm so stupid", she whispered._

_The older woman tutted and stroked her hair, "You're not, why would you say such a thing?"._

_Her eyes ached and her throat burned but she forced herself to rasp out the words she had just barely refrained from uttering as she watched the most important person in her life turn his back on her._

_"He wouldn't have done this to me"._

_Madame Giry seemed to understand without clarification that she was not talking about Raoul._

_In the weeks that followed she managed to pull herself together to the point that she could function, Meg and Madame Giry had certainly helped, always willing to listen patiently and offer advice if she wished, but it also did her wonders to be free of outside influence for the first time in as long as she could remember._

_She threw herself into her work, with considerably fewer distractions and a sudden need for a new first soprano her sudden rise to fame was almost as meteoric as her first. And this she knew was entirely on her own merit , it was incredibly rewarding to have earned something entirely on her own. In fact, on the whole she found that she did not mind being alone as much as she had anticipated. She had not realized how much of her time she structured around the whims of others until the pressure was suddenly removed, she was free to spend her days as she saw fit._

_Her world was far from perfect, as she increasingly found herself the new managers were testing their control, demanding unendingly more of her. She did not mind, she did not care, it was as if everything else had ceased to matter and there existed only her goals, the harder they pushed her the harder she pushed herself. Even as her body began to betray her she could not bring herself to regret._

_Weeks turned to months, in the blink of an eye the previous year elapsed. She continued to fall ill; she watched as the shadows beneath her eyes deepened, as her bones became more prominent and stood out a little too sharply beneath her skin, as her appearance changed and sharpened. Slowly but surely she had allowed her determination to waste her but even this she regarded with a sense of victory._

_She had made herself independent._

Satisfied her little trap was laid as perfectly as it could ever hope to be she collected her coat and left her apartment with a sense of purpose.

For better or worse, whenever the inevitable meeting came she would not be a victim.

* * *

_**Please review. I'm quite nervous about how my version of Christine will be received.**_


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